


On the Edge of a Sword

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [28]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gratuitous Smut, M/M, Meeting the Parents, thranduil's parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 00:19:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1407997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas has finally decided to take Gimli to meet his father. this is unlikely to go well.</p><p>(fits with Just Maybe, & also Red Star Rising, between chp 20&21)</p><p>title from Galadriel's line about the Quest being on the edge of a knife.......</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Still don’t like this bloody forest. Never have, never will. 

Only the second time I’ve actually been here, but – the stories were enough. And now – now I am only sitting on this bloody horse, heading for one place I really, really, do not want to go.

Oh my daft sodding elf, why?

Why do we have to go to your father’s Halls?

I don’t know why he has suddenly decided we must. It makes no sense to me.

Bloody elves.

I thought all was fine. We live in Aglarond, or in Ithilien, we travel between, we visit Erebor, we visit Gondor, we have no intention of visiting Rivendell – for which I am glad – we avoid any places near the Sea. I have plenty of work to do. He does not, he has Caradhil to do his work. 

So that is both of us happy.

Three of us, I suppose.

Why now this need to go to his father’s forest?

I thought he was happy not seeing the bastard king. 

I was happy.

I suspect bloody Droin, bloody Caradhil of saying something, plotting something. I know my cousin has muttered for years that there is something odd about One who does not take you home to his parents – I don’t know what bloody business of his he thinks it is. Or what he bloody knows about it; his love – he knew her parents as well as he knew her. And frankly, with a father like Dwalin, who could be scared of another’s?

That is not kind, Gimli, father would not like to hear you speak like that about your cousin.

Bloody Caradhil then. Up to something. 

Suppose he thinks if my daft elf is disowned by the bastard king, he will rule in Ithilien. Is that his plan?

No. With all his faults, he is not stupid. If that happens – he will have foisted on him one of the brothers, or some other Sindar, or a Galadhrim. 

And Caradhil has no time for any of them.

I wonder what he is up to then.

I am lost in my thoughts, which is preferable to being aware of my surroundings, when I feel the tension in my elf rise even further, and this horse slows. 

Song has changed too. Bit – unsure. Worried. Frightened even?  
“Gimli, melethron-nin, I – I need to confess something.”

Oh fuck. This is not a good start. I grunt, encouragingly, waiting for more.

“I – I am sorry. I – I – oh my lord, I have already written to my father. I wrote to Ada. I told him of us. I – I hoped to hear from him, but I have not. I – I am sorry. There is no way we can – can half tell, can wait and see, can go slowly. As Gloin-ada suggested, as we agreed. I – oh my lord, forgive me?”

Oh bollocks. I thought he was very meek and agreeable when father said that might be the best way of doing this. I am – I don’t know whether I am angry that he ignored our agreement, or pleased that he will not lie, will not hide what we are to each other. 

“Why do you do that?” I seize on a different issue to give myself time to think.

“Do what? What, Gimli-nin? Wait until you are on a horse to confess? Because I am not a fool, and I like you to remember you need me amidst your anger.” He is bloody laughing.

I pull his hair, as he deserves,  
“No, not that. Why the sodding ‘my lord’? I am not your lord. I don’t like it. You should not call me that. I – I see people’s faces when you do it, and they wonder. They wonder – “ I realise he is still – still – so bloody naive he has no idea what they wonder – and I am not sure how to put it – “they wonder how I treat you.”

He goes quiet, holds himself in, and I suddenly realise I have upset him. I wait.

Nothing.

I realise he is breathing in that way that means he is upset, he is not singing. Oh fuck, and I thought this was the easier conversation.

“Love,” I say, gently, “love, what is wrong? What have I said? You – you know I am no lord. At least – not by birth. And – you know – no dwarf calls me lord, not in conversation. It – it is not our way.”

“No, no. I suppose not. I – I am sorry. It – it just – it happens. I – I do not mean – I – I am sorry. I – I think of you as – as my – “ he cannot go on. 

“Your what?” I ask, holding him close, pressing my face into his wonderful hair, “your love? Your only? Your dwarf? Your dear foolish dwarf who asks the wrong question? Your Gimli who would fight for you, die for you, but sometimes cannot stop himself from being the most insensitive creature alive?”

He laughs, but it is a shaky sort of laugh, and I say,  
“Come on, love. It does not matter. Use whatever bloody words you like. I do not care. As for your confession – I am not hugely surprised. I did not think we would be at these Halls long before everyone knew. And – no word is better than ill-words, isn’t it?”

He nods again, and I hold him, wishing we had further to go through this forest, wishing there was more time to put this straight. We will be there soon and I have upset him now.

Not helpful.

Bloody fool, Gimli.

 

 

So now, here we are, following some elf through this palace. Very grand. Very echoey. Very – elven.

Can see what Droin meant though. It is – not well made. Not quite as it should be.

Interesting scene in the courtyard. Yes, interesting. Think of it as interesting, not any other word.

All those bloody elves, all looking, all – intent. 

All singing. 

All so pleased to see him. I had not realised – I suppose I should but I had not – I had assumed the ones who loved him were those in Ithilien, but no. Apparently they all do. 

Huge amount of ear-touching. Of showing him who combs with who, who has elflings – presenting elflings – examining his clothes, his jewels, his horse, everything.

Everything except his lover.

My Sindar is still not good – but – I am pretty confident from the eyes, no-one wants to mention he has brought home a dwarf.

Plenty of sidelong looks. Nothing else.

They do love him though. And he them.

Somehow – I had not realised how much. He knew them. All. He knew their names, their histories. He cared. He held the elflings, wanted to know names, ages, achievements.

It was – it was like a court. 

As it is in Ithilien, when we arrive there, but I had assumed that those were the ones who preferred him to his father. Now, now I see that they all love him.

All the Silvans.

Now I see that were it not for me – he could be king here one day. 

Which would release his father – allow him to go West. Be with his wife again.

Oh shit.

He is going to so love me.

Oh shit. 

Dungeon time?

No. No. I know my love will not let that happen.

But. Oh shit.

I had no idea.

 

 

The elf who has led us to this room says something I do not catch, and then goes. I turn to ask, but look at the room as I do,  
“Love, is this your room? Why – I am intrigued – why are there so many beds?”

He flushes, oh my sweet Legolas, though I think even now he does not fully understand my implication, and answers,  
“It is not my room. It – it is a guest room. This – this is how elves rest. You – you know we reverie in groups. Combing. I – I do not have a room in these Halls. Elves – we do not tend to think that way. If we are not here, why would we have a room?”

I am confused.  
“But – this was your home. For years. Hundreds – thousands of years. You had a room then? Of your own?”

He sighs, “Yes. When I was here. Not when I was on patrol. Even then – I would not have used it often. I would have been with my group. Except,” he flushes again, “except that sad lonely winter. I stayed in my chamber a lot then. I do not now remember which one it was at that time.”

Bloody elves. They are weird. He is weird. Still. 

“It – it is odd to me that your parents keep a room for you, that they use it not. That you need leave things there, that you have so many things. Items. Bits and pieces. I – elves do not. We do not collect things so. They – they wear out too fast.”

I suppose so. So do dwarves, I think. Perhaps that is why most of you are sensible enough not to love us.

Bloody elves.

But then he turns and looks at me, and raising his brow asks,  
“Gimli-nin, are you getting old? Why are we talking about – furnishings? We are in a bedroom, we are alone, we have been on a horse for hours – do you no longer desire me?”

I am taken aback, aroused by his need, yes, but taken aback all the same,  
“We are just arrived in your father’s palace. You have not spoken to him for – how many years? Yet – you want – what do you want?”

He smiles at me, and I can see his ears flush, but he is no innocent, no newly-wed,  
“I want you. I want to know you want me, I want you to fuck me. I want to know I am yours and you are mine,” smoothly he kneels at my feet, his mouth pressed suddenly against my breeches, “oh beloved, I think you want me. Why so reluctant?”

Of course I want him. When he does that – when he does anything – when he breathes – I want him. Sitting behind him on that bloody horse – his arse feels as good as ever, his hair as distracting, and now, now my hands do not have to be restrained. Now they roam over him as we travel. He knows I want him. But.

“This is not a good idea. Fucks sake, Legolas, your father is probably waiting to see you.”

He shrugs, and continues to use his mouth and the warmth is – wonderful – as he unlaces me with his teeth – and when did he learn that, I think? – as his hands are busy undoing my tunic.

“My lord king has waited many years, my lord king has not previously shown any impatience to greet me. He can wait a while longer, until my lord husband has had his fill of me,” and he freezes, realising what he has said, even as I understand. 

“Well,” I pretend to consider, “when you put it like that, ghivashel, I would indeed like to fill you. Very much.” And I feel him quiver with pleasure at my crudeness. I am not going to start the argument about the word husband. I don’t even know how I feel about it. I do not really know why it surprises me but – he is not my wife. So how can I be his husband? It isn’t the word I would use. We – I don’t know what word I would use. I had not thought. He is just – mine. My elf. “I still think we should not linger, but – these travel-stained clothes had best be changed, and I daresay we should wash. So – you may as well continue to strip me,” I pause, and add, “and yourself.”

And he leans back to throw off his tunic and looks up at me with the mischievous smile that reaches straight inside me, and I feel almost sick with need.

“Want you,” he says again, and I can see he is indeed ready and more than ready, as he wriggles out of his leggings, as he touches himself, and his voice hits that note that means he is desperate.

“How?” I ask, not feeling very creative today. Too much time on the bloody horse. 

“Care not. Any way you want. Just – please – now. Soon. Fast.” And he leans forward again, and licks at me, takes me in his perfect mouth, as I touch his ears for the joy of hearing his voice rise louder, for the joy of feeling him sing around my cock.

“Can’t reach the oil,” I say, and I can hear my voice sounding thick with desire, but he doesn’t mind. 

“In the pack,” he mumbles, at least I think that’s what he is saying.

“I know where it bloody is, daft sodding elf, I can’t fucking reach it. Get off me.”

He laughs, and pulls back, and the light in his eyes as he looks up at me is worth more to me than any bloody star – or glittering jewel.

“You are not a very courteous lover, dwarf, I am sure most would be more appreciative of my – talents.”

I am busy finding the oil, but I do not let it slow my answer down,  
“Well, elf, if I catch you finding out, you will regret it, I can tell you that. Although not as much as the bastard you are sucking. You had better be talented because it would cost him his life.”

And I turn back to run my hand through his hair, to pull him up to meet me as he answers,  
“Then it is a good thing I have no intention of finding out. I – just think – sometimes –“ he is becoming less coherent, and I interrupt,

“Think? You are thinking? I must be losing my touch. Stop bloody thinking and get on one of these beds. I want you, I want you now, and you want me. So stop bloody talking, elf.”

And I bring my mouth down onto his as he scrambles backwards onto the bed, and I taste his whimper as I oil him, as I get him good and ready. I have to stop kissing him to breathe, and as soon as I do, he is talking again. But I don’t mind this talk, as he clings to me, saying,  
“want you, please, yes, Gimli-nin, melethron, please, now, please, hurry. I want you so,”

And oh the sweetness of his need, of his words, of his arms about me, as I plunge into him. 

“Oh fuck,” I say, and I feel him laugh, “shut up, elf, I needed that more than I knew. Fuck that feels good. Love you.”

“Yes, yes, love you, need you, need you so. Oh, Gimli, please, don’t stop, please.” 

As if I am likely to stop. Why would I stop? But I can’t keep up with the arguing, I am too busy fucking him and oh it feels so good, his body wrapped round me, his arms and legs clinging, his mouth kissing at me even as he cries out under me, and oh he is so tight, so hot, so perfect.

It does not last long. 

But it is no less sweet for that.

 

 

Afterwards, he snuggles against me, and I think we should be washing, dressing, getting ready to meet the bastard king. But I am not really in a hurry. 

And perhaps it would be as well if we did not both look quite so – glowing.

He is fiddling with my beard, he is singing, both in that certain way.

“What now?” I ask, “have I to do something, or have you done something?”

He mumbles something into my chest – and I reflect that once I would never have thought an elf could be so incoherent. I wait. He looks up at me, and says,  
“My lord king – my lord king wanted – me – me – to – to – oh Valar, I should have said before. I – it is why Lord Elrond sent me – with you all – why me – not a more – useful – elf.”

Well, I think, that made no sense at all.  
“I think you are a very useful elf. If daft,” I say, “but – what? What were you supposed to do?”

He goes pink.  
“Marry Arwen.”

I choke.  
“What?! What the fuck?! Your father wanted you to marry Arwen. Barring her grandmother, the most beautiful elf – for – however long it is. You – did not I assume?” he shakes his head, still not meeting my eyes, “so you persuaded her father to send you on a quest likely to kill you – that must have offended him you’d think – and – helped your new mortal friend to marry her – and – and now you are bringing your father – a dwarf. A male dwarf.” I pause. “Fucks sake, Legolas, you daft sodding elf, you could have warned me. Your father is – not going to be happy.”

I know the bastard king knew Arwen had married Elessar. I know it is all several years ago. Not long for an elf. And – to be presented with me instead. 

Oh fuck.

Actually, I am not sure more time to worry about this would have helped.

“My lord king is rarely happy with me. I – I daresay if I had married her I would still have done something wrong. I – oh melethron-nin – please – do not be angry. I – I cannot bear it. I – I need you so.”

I sigh, “I know, love, I know. I just wish you had said. At least – I think I do. Oh well. Done now. Perhaps we should just get this over with. Unless you have anything else to confess?”

But – no.

At least, he says not.

But, as we are starting to dress, a question occurs to me.

“If your father wanted you to marry – he must have had reason to think – that you,” I wonder how to say this to him and decide just to ask, “that you – would be able to – make love – with a wife. You – have never said there was anyone?”

I am trying my best not to sound as though I am as surprised as I am. Admittedly I know little of elves – well – I used not – but – even Boromir – not the most perceptive – even he – could see that my elf – was – not very likely to want a wife. I did once wonder if it was just that elves are so different, but – then I met Caradhil. 

And some of his other elves. But particularly Caradhil.

No doubting his gender.

Anyway.

My elf is blushing. Oh how sweet he looks, but – why is he blushing? I wait.

“There was – a friend – a – she was Captain of the Guard. I – I did wonder – but – she was Silvan. And – and then she liked – loved someone else – and then – and then she died.” He looks at me, and adds, “in the Battle of Five Armies. Outside your mountain. Saving your cousin. Who died anyway.”

Oh.

There is silence. 

Then, he shrugs, and says,

“Now, I know I did not love her. But I thought I did. At least – I wondered. She was a good captain, a good fighter. Very brave. Very – definite.”

Yes, I think, you do have a type, my love. I daresay she was red-haired as well. As are all your Silvans.

“I am sorry she died,” I say, “sorry my cousin died as well. They would have been a good pair, I think.”

He nods, no jealousy in him, and I wonder how his father could have mistaken such a friendship for anything more – how he could have misread his own son so.


	2. Chapter 2

We enter the throne room, and I see nothing has changed. Nothing has changed here in as long as I can remember.

He has not changed.

He looks at me, at my love, from where he sits on his throne, and there is a slight eyebrow raise as he waits for me to speak. I see his eyes on my braids, I know he reads them, I know he will recognise dwarf-made beads as he looks. 

I know when his eyes flick to the jewels in my love’s hair, that he will recognise those as the ones from the necklace he gave me when I won my hunter’s braids. 

I wonder if he cares, or if it is only the thought of jewels gifted to a dwarf that touches his heart.

I walk forward, my love beside me, and I kneel. 

“My lord King,” I say, and I realise my love is not kneeling, I remember he said he would not, that no dwarf would do so, that I was not to stay kneeling, I was to rise, as any prince of any other land would. For a moment I think I cannot, I think I am too afraid. Then I think, no, my love will be shamed if I seem to kneel at the feet of one who is sure to be – not welcoming. 

I stand. And as I raise my head to speak, I hear the elves, these elves I know, who love me, whisper at my small rebellion.

As they have not whispered at my braids, at my beads, at my love, at the jewels he wears. And I wonder at my people that this should seem so much more to them.

“My lord King,” I say again, “I am here as I said in my letter, because I desire you to meet my love – Gimli, son of Gloin. And I desire your leave to show him the places in this Forest that mean much to me.”

I am tense, I am nervous, I do not know what to expect. There are so many ways he could choose to hurt me. 

Instead, he inclines his head,  
“Gimli, son of Gloin, be welcome in this Forest. Be welcome in my Halls. You are not the first dwarf to be entertained here – while you, ion-nin, were wandering upon the errands of peredhel, we had several dwarves of Erebor visit. I believe, Gimli son of Gloin, that the leader, Droin son of Dwalin is some relation of yours?” and as my love bows an assent, he adds, “A most excellent dwarf. Courteous, methodical, and – intelligent.”

“I am sure he will be most flattered that you remember him,” my love answers, “he has remembered his time here fondly, I have heard him speak often of the beauty of your Halls.” This is one way of phrasing it, I suppose. I would have said I had heard him speak often of the lack, of the ill-design. Perhaps that is why I am not known for my golden tongue, as is my love. He continues, “He is now my most valued right-hand in our work in Aglarond.”

The king inclines his head again, and waits to see if there is more to be said. 

I suppose there should be, but I cannot think what. I have never known what to say to him, and I find that has not changed.

I wonder why I thought it might.

 

 

So it goes the whole time. 

In front of the court, my lord king is very polite, very cold. 

He asks if I will show him my swordwork – he says he heard from the grandsons of the Lord Celeborn that my fighting was much improved. I wonder what mischief they were plotting, coming here, speaking of me. I answer that I do not use a sword, I use only my knives and bow. That I know he will not be interested in seeing my skill with those un-Sindar weapons. He inclines his head in silence.

And my heart aches for him to tell me he would see what I can do, to praise me.

I only see him in front of the court. He does not send for me, I do not know how to go to him. 

It has always been this way between us.

I do not know why I thought it would be different. 

I do not know how it could be different.

He is no dwarf-father, to shout, to laugh, to hold me.

He – is not as other elves. He does not touch my ears, he does not ask me to sit with him, to sing with him, to talk with him.

He never has.

No. I remind myself, he touched my ears once. He praised me, that once. He does love me. 

He does.

I may have changed – but he has not.

Perhaps I am less changed than I thought.

 

 

Were it not for my love, I would be desolate. Instead, when the two of us are alone, I am desperate. I find I need his loving more than ever. I cannot keep my hands off him, I need him to touch me all the time. 

I know him now, I know what to do. I use words, I use my hands, my tongue, my walk, my hair, anything.

He fucks me in our room. Again and again, on my back, on hands and knees, over the beds, against the wall. I do not care how or where, I need it. I need him on me, over me, pounding into me until I cannot think.

He has me in the Forest, over and over among the trees, by the river, in the feasting glade when it is deserted. He has me screaming for him, crying out for more, desperate, I cannot get enough. I do not care who hears.

He rides me hard in the hayloft, over a bale. And oh Valar, the feel of it, the heat of him, the need, the – the way he drives into me, wanting, taking, and I know – I know there are elves nearby, I know they can hear, and I love him so, I am his, anything he wants, anything, I will do.

I persuade him to join me in a flet, and we nearly fall out.

Yet he is not cross.

As time wears on, I become more and more desperate. I do not understand why, but I cannot leave him alone, I must have him.

I am on my knees to him, my mouth busy, the instant we are alone. Anywhere. A wine cellar, an armoury, a storecupboard, the stables, the dining hall when it is quiet, a guardroom, anywhere. I cannot control myself. I push him against the door of whichever room we are in, and I kneel before him, unlacing him, needing to suck him, needing him to come in my mouth, needing to know he wants me. And oh the taste of him, the feel of him, so strong, so good, so much. I need it so. I look up at him, and I do not know whether I prefer to see him eyes closed, given over to pleasure, hands digging into my hair, or eyes meeting mine, revelling in the picture I make for him, as he strokes my ears and I whimper with need, helpless in my desire.

I am obsessed.

I think he does not mind. 

At first, at first, he enjoys it, he finds it amusing, he laughs that I am clearly home, clearly have missed these trees, this wine.

He is not stupid.

He knows something is wrong.

He waits until we are combing one night, alone in our room, exhausted, to speak to me.

“How long are we staying here?” he begins, and as I clearly have no answer, he continues, “I suppose we have not yet tried the possibilities of a few areas. Are you going to want me to fuck you in one of the dungeons next, act out some bloody twisted fantasy of rape? Or – shall we try your father’s throne? Or his bedroom?”

I am silent. I do not look at him.

I try not to show how his words, the possibilities, arouse me and waken needs I had tried to quiet.

“Legolas, if he does not want to know, you cannot make him. You told him, you are here. We wear our braids. It is clear we are vowed, married, in the eyes of any who can see. You have to stop this. Stop trying to force him to look at you.” He sighs, “apart from anything else, my daft elf, I am knackered. And you will not be able to sit on a horse if we keep this going many more days.”

I smother a laugh,   
“I am an elf,” I remind him, “we heal fast.” Not that I need to, he is a very – attentive – lover. 

“Seriously, my beloved,” he says again, “how long are we staying? Time draws on. I have work to do. You – you have Caradhil to praise. He will have some mad idea for you to approve no doubt. Some part of Faramir’s lands he has conned the poor lad out of. We have seen the Forest. It is very nice.” 

I look at him.  
“Well, it is better than I thought it might be. Less – spidery.” I snort, and am tempted to pull his hair, but – actually he has a point. There are less spiders. It does feel safer.

How have I not noticed?

Well. 

I have been – distracted.

“I had not thought,” I say, “I suppose – we can leave whenever you wish, my lord.” And I see him wince, and I could bite my tongue. I had not realised he disliked it so. I do not really understand why. I love him, he loves me, we are vowed. That is how elves – royal elves – address their husbands. He did not wince when the Lady called Celeborn her lord. 

He does love me.

He does.

I must stop calling him that. 

I could not bear to lose him.

 

 

Next day I go to the throne room, I wait, as any elf may do, to speak to the king. 

When it is my turn, I walk forward, I kneel, and I rise, again without waiting for the command. I am proud of myself, proud of my courage for my love is not watching, it would be so easy to wait as I always have. I do not know where he is. This is for me to do alone.

“My lord king,” I say, “I – we – wish to depart. It begins to seem long that we have been away from our own lands.”

He looks impassive as ever as he says,  
“I wish you joy of those lands. Very well. There will, I am sure, be a feast tonight, that you may take your leave of all those who will wish to speak to you.”

I bow my head, and seeing the gesture, turn to go, my audience over. But as I start to move away, he speaks again,  
“Myself, I shall expect you to attend me here tomorrow. First thing, that your departure be not delayed.”

I am almost at the door when he adds,  
“Both of you.”

And I wonder with some trepidation what he has in mind.

 

 

The feast that night is a joyous one, or it would be, were I not still nervous of the morrow. 

Many elves come to me, speak, wish us joy, there are many who would come to Ithilien – for a season at least – perhaps more. I think Caradhil will be pleased his land is so well thought of. 

I am pleased how many seem genuinely sorry we are leaving, genuinely to have a liking for my love. 

It is a Silvan feast. There is dancing. My love gestures to me to dance, as I would in Ithilien.

“No,” I say, “I cannot. I cannot dance here.”

He frowns, and I wonder why. Surely he knows, he knows I cannot dance before my lord king – he has long made it clear he will not suffer me to behave so. 

We do not leave the feast until late. I know it may be the last time I drink beneath these trees, and I cannot help but feel sad. When we reach our room, I turn to him, wanting comfort, wanting love, but he is already sinking into sleep, and,

“No. For the love of Durin, not again. Bloody elf on heat. I am knackered, we have to be up and travelling tomorrow. Just sodding reverie, or comb, or pack. Let me sleep.”

I did not mean – I just want to be close to him. I curl up beside him, my hands in his hair, in his beard, my head on his chest, and he puts an arm round me. He reads my hurt – I know not how – and mutters,  
“Sorry. Love you, Legolas, my elf. Just – how many times today – I just can’t again.”

“I – all I want is you to hold me,” I say, but he is already asleep, holding me, and I tell myself I am being foolish to even consider worrying.

 

The next morning we go to the throne room, as we were commanded to, and find we need not wait. There are, as always, other elves there, but we are expected. I kneel, and rise, my love bows and as I stand, waiting, as my lord king looks at me in silence, I am grateful for his presence, his support. 

After a moment he speaks,  
“I thank you for your welcome to these Halls, King Thranduil, for the courtesy of your people, which is greater by far than I had feared.” I bite the inside of my cheek that I not laugh, I have heard his father speak on this subject also. “Now we must return to our own lands, and I hope the peace your son fought so hard for may allow your Forest to grow in beauty.”

The king looks at him, and inclines his head,  
“My Forest is ever beautiful – to the right eyes. But I thank you for your good wishes, and I hope your caves may be full of those gems you doubtless value beyond all else. Farewell, Gimli son of Gloin.”

I feel his tension beside me, and I dread his answer to this, this so-thinly-veiled insult.  
“That which I value beyond all else travels with me, and is by my side, now as ever. There are no gems in my caves that can compare with the treasure your Forest grew me, and I would thank you for that too – were it yours to give. Farewell, King Thranduil.”

He steps back, I know it is my turn to say something, to make my farewells, to be courteous. Instead I stand in silence, my eyes meeting his, fixed by his gaze as a moth by a pin, as a rabbit by a snake. I do not know what to say.

As I have never known what to say to him.

And for an instant, I wonder if he feels the same. But – he has other sons. He talks to them. 

At least, he used.

Perhaps not now, I reflect, as I remember they have left, taken their families, gone to Lorien. I do not know why. I am just relieved I need not see them again.

I wonder if he cares.

After a long moment, I find my voice,   
“I too, thank you for our welcome, for the courtesy of your people. I – I have spoken to them of Ithilien – if any – wish for – for the sight of new lands – we would make them welcome in return. I – I rejoice to see the Forest so green and the darkness gone.” 

Again, he inclines his head in silence, but before I can bid him a formal farewell, he makes a gesture, and says,   
“I would speak with you alone, ion-nin, before you leave.” He pauses, waits as the elves go, then with a look at my love, “Alone.”

I feel a touch on my arm, I turn, and see my beloved looking at me. I nod, and he leaves also.

I suspect he will listen.

After all, most of the elves will.

 

 

He leaves his throne, he approaches me. I wonder whether I should kneel again. 

I wait. His hand comes out, he touches a strand of my hair, runs it between his finger and thumb.

He reaches to touch my braids, to touch the beads. 

I wait. 

I do not know whether I am waiting for scorn, or – or if the elfling inside is right when it cries out for more. For the touch of his hand on my ears. Please Ada, please. Just once.

He looks at me.  
“You are determined on this, ion-nin? This is what you would have? A – a dwarf.” He holds up his hand as I am about to speak, “Peace. Listen. For once in your life, listen. He is a dwarf. He may be a great warrior, he may be rich, he may be all that you believe – but he is a dwarf.”

He turns away, and as he speaks again, I am glad I cannot see his face, and that he cannot see how mine burns,

“You have made it very clear – you have given him yourself. I think all in this kingdom now know. Ion-nin, you have never had Sindar restraint, and I have never wished for it so much as these last weeks. But – for all that – for all that he has your comb – he is a dwarf.”

He turns back, and I hear the knife in his voice as he says,  
“He is a mortal. He will die. And what then? What then?”

I lick my lips, I swallow, I say,  
“Then I shall die as well. I love him. I cannot be without him.”

And he closes his eyes for a moment.   
“Fool,” he hisses, “do not talk to me of love, of what you cannot be without. You could be without him if you had to. For year upon year, century upon century, from one age to another. If you had to.”

I look at him, and I shake my head,  
“No, my lord king, I could not. I – I am not you. I have not your strength. Ada – please – understand. I cannot.”

There is silence. I have not called him that, except in my head, for – years. Not since – he rebuked me, told me I was too old for such infantile behaviour. My eyes are fixed on the ground, waiting for another such rebuke.

Instead he sighs,  
“And what of after death? What then? You are no dwarf to go to the Halls of Aule, you will still be separated.”

I shake my head again, I look up,   
“No. No. I have his true-name. I will find him. He – he holds my fea. He will wait for me. I will be with him again.”

He looks at me for a long while. 

I wait.

“Perhaps you will. My poor Silvans. They would have accepted you as a king. I suppose there are no – no elflings anywhere that I should know of?”

For a moment I am puzzled, then I understand what he is asking, and I flush,   
“Of course not,” I say, “how can you even ask?”

He shrugs.   
“If you are mortal in so many ways, what would one more be?” 

I look at him,  
“And if there was – why would I give a child of mine to you? When Caradhil would care so well for it?”

He ignores the jibe, as he ever ignores my attempts to buy his attention, and turning away, says quietly,  
“Ah yes. Caradhil. Poor Caradhil. Another hundred years to wait for your comb. I do hope you have not been foolish enough to tell him you plan to follow your dwarf into death – that might be enough to break even his hope. And then, then you would have to do some of your work yourself for once.”

I ignore this, in my turn. Caradhil has never felt so. 

There is silence once again, and I wonder if I should take my leave now. Then, still facing away, he speaks again,   
“You left your sword. It has been cleaned, kept ready for you. Will you not take it? I – I know you love it not, but – it is a royal weapon.”

He knows me not at all, I realise.

And somehow, it hurts more, when for a moment, I thought, I wondered, I hoped – but no.

He knows nothing of the hours, the hours, I spent with that – that bloody, fucking, sword. The time I wasted, trying to be what he wanted. 

Trying to be a royal Sindar. 

I am not. I am Silvan, Silvan as those who cared for me.

The pity in the eyes of the swordsmaster, that cut worse than any wound.

The humiliation, the shame, the agony, when he decided to spar with me himself. To point up my many, many failings, even as he pretended to teach me.

“No, my lord king, I will not take it. I want it not. It has no good memories for me.”

And I turn away. 

I am almost at the door, when I remember and say,

“Farewell, King Thranduil.”

But he does not even answer.

And the coldness of his rejection would freeze me, would shatter me – had I not the warmth of my love, my lord to go to.


	3. Chapter 3

Well, that clearly went well.

Or not.

He stalks out of the room, and I wonder again how neither of them can see how frighteningly similar they are.

I unfold my arms, and look at him, and he says,   
“If it be your will, my lord, we shall leave now?”

Oh fuck. We are back to all the ‘my lord’, are we?

One day, one day, I will have the courage to address him in that manner, in front of my parents. And he will never hear the end of it.

But today – today I shall simply answer,  
“Aye. If all is done. I am hungry for the sight of our lands. And I expect your bloody horse is ready to earn an apple or two.”

And I go with him to where our horse – bloody thing – is waiting, with our possessions, such as they are, and the elves who wish to see us off.

Nearly as many as needed to greet him.

All of them still bloody singing.

Still ear-touching.

Oh well.

They do seem genuinely sorry he is going. Some of them even manage an almost convincing farewell to me – be fair, Gimli, some of them may mean it. They know I am precious to him. 

Actually, some of them are really quite pleasant, some of them have been good company. Much as in Ithilien, really.

Except Caradhil is not here.

Never thought I would find anything I preferred about the Forest of the bastard king to our land of Ithilien.

 

 

And, now that we are on this horse, wending our way through this bloody Forest – and again, be fair, Gimli, it is not as bad as you thought, not as bad as it was – I can ask.

“What was all that about then? What did he want?”

I can feel the tension in him. Hear it.   
“To remind me you are a dwarf. To make me take the – sodding – sword with me.”

What? I have heard many things of the bastard king, but not that he was in his dotage. In fact, I am sure he is not. These weeks have made it clear he is not. So.

“You are going to have to explain that, my love.” I say, quietly.

“You are a dwarf. You will die. In case I had forgot.”

“Well,” I am trying to be generous, “perhaps he is worried about you. He does love you, remember?” so you always tell me. 

He is very quiet.

“I thought he did,” he says at last, “I have always tried to believe it. But – I know not. If he did, why – why would he not see how I hate that sword? How I always hated it. How every moment I spent practicing with it was only ever for his praise, and he could never give it. Never. How the hours I spent were never enough. How could he think I would want to be reminded of the hours he made me spend with him, practicing, while he lectured me? And disarmed me, over and over, belittled me, humiliated me?” he is shaking now, “No. Now I finally believe what I know you and Caradhil – and others, I suppose – have thought for long, now, now, I believe he does not. Never did.”

But the pity of it is, now, now I finally think he may have been right. I think the bastard king does love him – in his own, tight way. 

I saw his face the night my elf spoke of my mother as Naneth. Of my father as Gloin-ada. And, in the next sentence, of him as my lord king. 

I saw the pain in his eyes, eyes I can read because I spend my life with their copies. And I have learnt to read the moods of my love by his song. But – his father does not sing. 

I wonder if he ever did.

Suddenly, I hear what my elf has just said. And I understand another part of this.

“Your sword?” I ask, “your sword? You left it here? Why would you do that? He must have thought – you planned to die.”

I know he has other weapons, that he hates that sword, that he carries it not, but – to leave it, when going to a new realm – not on a short errand, as his journey to Rivendell was supposed to be – but to begin a new life – what can that have said? 

Besides,  
“Your sword, he taught you to use your sword?”

He shrugs,  
“He would be the first to say he tried with little success.”

“But – my daft elf – do you not see? Is that – is that the only time you spent with him? Just with him?”

“Yes. And it was no pleasure to either of us.” He is bitter now.

“Stop. Stop this fucking horse, right now, and listen to me,” I say, and I am amazed that he does. He does not even pretend to argue. Perhaps this ‘my lord’ is worth putting up with.

“Maybe, just maybe,” I say, “it was a pleasure to one of you. Maybe. You told me yourself – he wears a glamour. He has not full vision – how could he use a sodding bow? Maybe, just maybe, his sword skill was all he had to offer you. Maybe he was trying. These lectures – maybe he was trying to talk to you, to tell you of his life, to open a way between you? Have you ever bloody thought of that? Maybe – maybe he is no fucking better with words than you are?” I stop, and wait a moment to let this sink in, but before he can speak, I say, “and maybe – maybe he wanted you to take the bloody sword because he doesn’t know what else to give you. Because he loves you. And you wouldn’t take it. You told him you had no good memories of it.”

There is silence. 

Complete silence. 

He is not even singing.

“Oh Fuck,” he says, and I, even at this moment, I think – I have not been a good influence on you, my love. “Gimli – lord of my heart – do you say this to comfort me or because you believe it true? By your honour?”

“By my honour, I do not know. But – yes. I think it may be true. I do not know. It seems possible. I – oh bloody elves. I don’t know.” I pause, then, “but – ask yourself – if there is even a chance I am right – will you not go back? Try?”

If there is one thing I know about you, my daft elf, my dearest of all, it is that you are skilled in apologising. In going back. In trying again. 

And while he is thinking, I think over the rest of what I heard. I think of the words the bastard king spoke of Caradhil. And I wonder if he is right. 

I wondered. I wondered when first I met him, when he was so protective of my elf, so fierce. I wondered. 

But – my Legolas loves me so, he has not a flicker of deceit in him, and elves are so bloody odd, I told myself I was foolish. 

I told myself one so charismatic as Caradhil – if he wanted my love he would have had him by now. Starved as he was of love and affection, I don’t think it would have taken much to have him fall into bed – or, indeed, a pile of leaves. It certainly didn’t take much from me, and from what I have heard Caradhil is no innocent, Caradhil is skilled with his hands. Caradhil combs whoever he desires. None will refuse his comb. So I told myself – that if Caradhil has no One, does not fuck – that he is an elf. They are all bloody mad. He misses it not, he does not know.

I had come to believe it. 

But now – if even the bastard king has thought this – perhaps I am foolish not to suspect. Not to defend my rights. For Legolas is mine. Mine only. Mine to touch, mine to hold, mine to fuck. 

Mine to comb.

Even now, I do not mistrust my love. He is not capable of such deceit. I know this, I know him. 

Caradhil is. 

Caradhil is capable of anything to get what he wants.

I think – that bloody elf will need watching.

I think – I had best ensure he has work to keep his mind and hands busy. Do not approach my elf, son of Finbonaur, not if you know what is good for you. 

You had your chance. Years, you had. He is mine. He sings for me, he dances for me, he combs only with me. He wears my braiding, my jewels, my beads. 

I am his One, his combmate, his avowed, his, oh sod it, his husband, his – if I must – lord. 

Perhaps I could come to accept that word.

You have his lands. His people. His rule. Let that be enough.

Or you will feel my axe.

The time it takes me to think this is not long, but the time it takes my love to think on what I have said – is even shorter. Before I can fully finish my thoughts, my threats, he is turning the horse, he is reaching to hold me, to tell me to grip on, he is riding as though this is some desperate race.

“Love,” I say, into his flowing hair, “you and your father have waited thousands of years to understand each other, I don’t think it is suddenly a matter of only seconds left,” and I pat him, hold him close, because I can feel he is shaking. 

And because this bloody horse is going faster than I like through such a dark and unpleasant forest.

As we arrive back at the Hall gates, he throws himself off the horse, and flings a word to me,

“Stay with Arod, or not, as you choose. See him looked after. Or something. I – I must do this now, while I still dare.”

And he goes.

He storms past the elves at the gate, ignoring them, and they look from him to me, not knowing what to think. I hear him crossing the courtyard, shouting, 

“Ada! Ada! Where is my father? Where is the king?”

And I think I have never heard him so.

I descend – ungracefully, no doubt – from this bloody horse, and thank Mahal it has the wit to follow me into the courtyard, and that the elves do not ask me any foolish questions. One even appears with water and some bag of – whatever it is wood-elves feed horses on – so horse is content. 

I stand and wait.

I can hear shouting.

I can hear the voice of my love, but now I cannot follow the words. They are, I think, Sindarin. Sindarin spat out too fast for me to catch, Sindarin at high speed.

Every so often I hear the word Ada – which I do know. But I am not sure whether he is shouting at his father, or calling for his father.

Then it all goes quiet. 

And the real wait begins.

After some time, an elf brings me some food, drink. I am glad to find I recognise him, he is one I spent much time with, talking of places I had seen, for he is another with a longing to travel. Like Caradhil. I am not going to think about bloody Caradhil.

“Arasfaron,” I say, “you may laugh, but – what was all that shouting? My Sindarin is not good enough to follow when you all speak so fast. And – do you know where my love now is? How long I will be waiting for him?”

The tips of his ears colour, and I wait as he thinks how to say this.  
“My lord, I – I beg you not to blame me? If I speak to you these words?” he is hesitant, and I wonder what in Durin’s name my dear One has done, said? But I need to know, so I nod – after all, it is hardly this lad’s fault. Lad – he is doubtless older than the oldest dwarf I have ever known. Bloody elves. He twitches his nose, and starts, 

“He was calling for his father. For the king. Someone – one of the guards – said the king was not to be disturbed – said – the king was busy. They – they tried to stop him, I think. He – he used words I did not know – I – I think they may not have been Sindar – he said he would see the king. He said he – he was Thranduilion – that they had no right to keep him from the king. He – he said – the king is his father – who are they to keep him from the king – who are they to keep him from his father. There – there was much shouting – I – I thought they might try to stop him by force – I – I think perhaps one or two might have – the others would not. I – I cannot tell you who.” But his eyes slide away, and I know he could – he will not, and who can blame his loyalty. Besides, my love will know, if it needs knowing – and those elves can forget any ideas of Ithilien they may have had. 

Arasfaron swallows his lie, and continues,  
“He called out – that he loves his father – that he would see him – and – and then I think he must have opened the door to the king’s chambers – or another did – and then – then he said that again – that he loves his father. And then the door shut.” 

He stops, and looks at me again,   
“And now – you know as much as any. Probably more. They are together – I know not how long they will be. I – that is why I thought to bring you something for your noonday meal. It may be long – it may be but a few moments more.”

I sigh.   
“Oh. Daft sodding elf – not you, my elf. I thank you, Arasfaron, for your explanation. And – would you have time to sit and while away the afternoon with me?”

He smiles,  
“Indeed, my lord, I do – I would hear more of your journeyings.”

 

 

It is – hours. But – not as long as perhaps I would have liked. Not as long as I think my love needs – not after so many years of neglect. But – they seem to have made some kind of peace.

At least, they come out together, not touching – elves do not touch as much as I would have thought – but – walking together, their strides matching. My love – has clearly been weeping – but – he is smiling now. Not – what is the word – golden – not – overly joyous – but – smiling. And I wonder when the bastard king last saw him smile, and if he ever caused it before.

Because the king, the bastard king as I have always privately thought of him, the king is also smiling. At least, I think that very slight hint of an expression is a smile. 

And – fuck me – my love is wearing a swordbelt. A sword. I think I have never seen him carry a sword before, and I cannot stop myself from exclaiming,

“This is the sword? Give it to me, love.”

And he hands it over, reversing it, so I take it by the hilt. I take it, feeling the heft, the weight, the balance of it. I do not think of the symbolism, the possible meaning of a so-easily, casually surrendered sword, of my immediate demand and his compliance. Until I feel the cold horror from the bastard king, and all the other elves. Shit. Ignore it, Gimli, there is no other way. Be the craftsman you are, nothing more at this moment. I look at it. It is indeed a beautiful sword. My face must show I know its worth.

“Durin’s balls,” I say, and – yes – I have made the bastard king twitch his nose. I got a reaction. “This is a fine sword. Oh my daft sodding elf, how could you leave a weapon like this untended? In fact, if this is your sword, you had better bloody learn to use it. It is deserving of respect.”

I look up from my examination of it, to see my love biting his lip, and blinking at me from big wide eyes, and I realise what I have just said. Oh shit.

But his father – the bastard king – is looking at me as though he has never heard a dwarf speak before.

“Son of Gloin, did you really just tell my son to practice his swordwork?” he asks, slightly faintly.

I raise my brows, purse my lips, and shrug my shoulders,

“Yes. It seems I did. Although – for all I know he needs not practise. For all I know he is skilled. I have never seen him use a sword.” Casually as I can, trying to show this means naught, I pass it back to him, hilt first, as any weapons-crafter would. “But – this – is a very fine weapon. He had best find an heir just for this.” I mean nothing by it, it is a dwarvish phrase, but again I realise what I have said, and wince inwardly.

My love blinks again, and half-laughs, but his father – oh shit – his father, the bastard king, goes very cold and still for a moment, and I think – if you sang, if you sang as does every other bloody elf I have ever met – you would stop now. Stop at that thought. 

You do love him.

You can’t show it, you can’t say it – but – you do.

He unfreezes after a moment,   
“Yes. Indeed. And for your lands.” He sighs, “Ion-nin, you had best find an heir. Doubtless you will have nothing to do with your brothers or their children still. So – a Silvan. And I think it would not be hard to put a name on which Silvan will care for both lands and sword.”

No, I think, I don’t suppose it would. The devious fucker.

The bastard king – I don’t think I can change my feelings just yet – is silent for a moment more, and then, 

“Gimli, son of Gloin, it seems I must charge you to care for my son. See that he regrets not his choices.” He reaches out and touches the jewels my love wears, that he always wears, the necklace, the bracelet, the pin on his cloak, the clasps among my beads in his hair, all of them mithril, all of them sapphires and gold inlay, all of them valuable beyond the riches of most kings. “You have certainly gifted him most royally. As he has you.” And his eyes are on the jewels in my hair. The green and white jewels that once were a necklace, that my love gifted me to show I am his as much as he is mine.

I bow again, and answer,  
“Indeed he has,” and I find I cannot resist the temptation to say, “Thranduil-ada, he has. But not with these gems. They are but a pretty token of the gift he bestows on me every day that I wake next to him and know he has chosen to spend my life with me.”

He raises his brows, but to give him credit, does not flinch at the name, does not back away. And I think – Thorin was wrong. Many dwarves have been wrong about this elf. He is not all the things they said. He is proud, he is cold, but – he is not heartless, he is not moved only by the love of precious stones. No more than any dwarf.

And, for an instant, I wonder what his son would have become, had the Lord Elrond chosen a more sensible elf for our quest. Would he too have been cold and proud towards mortals – as he was to my Father and all that Company? 

Or would that bloody Caradhil have kept him warm?

“I am glad you know it,” he answers, “fare you well, lord of Aglarond and Ithilien.”

“Fare you well, King Thranduil, and may your Forest ever bring you joy.” I answer.

Now, now my love turns to his father, and I can see that all is not perfect, all is not healed – and perhaps never will be. But – all is better than it was. There is some regard, some affection now. Little enough I daresay, but some at least. 

There is a hesitancy about each of them that says this is new, this is – difficult – this is not a daydream – all will not be forgotten – we will not become close, we will not write letters, think of each other with a smile – but – we will not hate, we will not fear. We can let the past be the past, let it go and live as we now are.

Separate.

But – not resentful.

“Ada, I – I –“ my love is no better with his words, I notice, as he flounders, and ends by half reaching out his hands.

Oh shit, I think, can the bastard not even once touch his sodding ears?

But – he does. The bastard king – who I really am going to have to stop calling that – actually reaches out and touches my Legolas’ ears, strokes them. And – so hesitantly – my love reaches up in return, and they stand for a long moment, looking into each other’s eyes.

I suppose that is the equivalent of a proper hug. 

Bloody mad elves.

But – it seems to be enough.

“Ion-nin, our farewells are said,” their hands drop, and catch, and hold, and he speaks again, still cold, still controlled – though I wonder what it is costing him, “I understand. I may not see you again – you will not have many years left in this world – you need to sail. You – you will not be what I once hoped – but – you have made your choice. You are old enough to know what is truly your heart’s longing. This I charge you – to care for my Silvans in your lands, and when you leave – for leave you will – to find one to care for them in your stead. You have a duty; if you will not see it done, you must find another willing.”

I see the whiteness of their knuckles as they grip each together, and I think – Men say dwarves are formal, hard – Men know nothing of elves.

“I understand, Ada, and I accept the duty and the charge. To the best of my ability, I will do as you command. To the best of my ability – and I can only beg the Valar that it will be enough to please you.”

The bastard king lets go his hands, and as we turn to our patient horse, he watches.

He watches as my Legolas speaks to the creature, telling it of our new plans, I suppose, as he looks into its eyes, as he puts his head far too close for my comfort to its, as, for all my unease at this habit, he nuzzles it, and shares some handful of something he has in his pocket.

And I recall Caradhil saying this is a Silvan habit, that no Sindar would do so, and I wonder what his father thinks of it. Truly, one conversation is not enough to break down three thousand years of divide – but it seems to be all there is going to be.

He watches as my love mounts, so lightly, easily, and turns to pull me up behind him. Effortlessly, practised, not even thinking about it. As I settle against him, my hands holding him, my arms around him, my head against his back, my face in his hair, my legs about him.

And I wonder what he thinks. Whether he, like so many, sees, willingly or not, an image of our passion, of me fucking his beautiful son. 

I bloody hope not.

He watches as we ride out of the gateway, as we turn onto the Forest Road, heading for – wherever my love told the bloody horse to go. I do not know, it occurs to me, I do not know where he plans we should sleep this night. I do not care. I trust him.

I do not know how long the king watches as we ride away. I do not look back. 

Nor does my love.

But – he is singing. 

 

 

It is nearly dusk when the bloody horse stops. Somewhere in the Forest. I am half-asleep, which I find is one of the better ways to travel – awake enough to enjoy the feel of my elf, not awake enough to think about the bloody horse.

He is on the ground, round at the head of the creature, chattering away to it, feeding it something, and I am not looking to see whether they are sharing; for my own peace of mind I have learnt it is best not to look. After a bit, he turns to me, as I am scrambling down, and says,

“Is not Arod the most clever horse? Are you not impressed, Gimli-nin? See where we are?”

No, I think, I have no idea. We are in your bloody Forest. It all looks pretty much the same to me. Horrible place. But – clearly this is somewhere important, somewhere I should know, so I say,

“Yes. Well done, horse. Very good. Here we are.” Hoping I will get a clue in a minute, or that he won’t mind when he realises I have no idea.

Horse wanders off, as horse does.

Elf is busying himself, unrolling bedrolls, setting a fire. Unrolling bedrolls on either side of the fire. Not together.

That is odd.

Bloody mad elf.

Then I realise.

“What are you up to, my love?” I ask, and I watch as he flushes. Oh my sweet Legolas, I think, what is in your pretty head now?

“I – I – do not be cross, melethron-nin, I – I wanted – I – you have made my memories of all my years in those Halls so much sweeter – I – I would have you remake my memories of that night here too?” he is pink now, from ear-tip to collar – and I wonder how much further the blush spreads as he continues, “I – I know it will not change the past – but – but – I thought – it would be – oh please?”

And I smile.

“Daft sodding elf,” I say, “of course. But – food first?”

 

 

After we have eaten, we sit for a while, watching the fire. Then he unbraids his hair, kneels before me and says, and I hear the nerves in his voice, 

“Elvellon, I do not ask you to braid, but – will you comb my hair?”

And I answer,  
“Aye,” and I take his comb. As I work out the tangles, as I smooth his lovely hair, I remember the night he asked this, I remember how he felt under my hands, how nervous he was, and how I did not understand. How much courage that must have taken, I think again, to ask for such a thing, to – to take the next step towards me, not understanding, not knowing, only knowing it was irrevocable. That for him, for him, it was a binding while for me – it was nothing more than pleasure. 

My poor elf. How I hurt him. How I love him. Perhaps – perhaps this time I can get it right.

He trembles again now, so needy he feels, so scared, and I cannot but lean down to his beautiful ears and stroke them until he calms.

“What of me?” I ask, and I am ashamed to hear such selfish words, but I know that is what I said to him, “what will you give me?”

And he turns, he bites his lip, and oh Mahal, is this really the same elf who has worn me out these past days with his demands?

“Anything you ask,” he whispers, “but – I know not. I – I do not know, Gimli. I am an elf. I do not know.”

Oh my poor love, I realise, he still thinks it is his fault for not explaining.

“This is what I would have from you,” I say, and I lean to him, I pull him towards me, and I kiss him. I put all I have into this kiss, I put all the love I have for him, and all the knowledge I have of pleasing – him and others – but mostly him.

Soon enough he is clinging, and moaning into me. I pull back, and I think – now, now I will get it right for him,

“If this is so much, what more do you know? What more can I do? I – I would not hurt you, Legolas,” I say, and I stroke his ears again as he looks up at me, and then down,

“I know nothing,” he says, “I – I have not kissed before. I – I would learn. I – I have thought of this often.”

“As have I,” I say, “But – you are an elf. I thought – elves don’t.”

He is pinker than ever now, and I wonder if this is right, if this is what he wanted, but he answers,   
“I would like to learn. For you, Gimli, I would.”

And I dare answer,  
“Legolas, I – I know much of bed, of fucking, of pleasure. I – I know little of love. I – I think of you so much. I – I care for you. I – I have never known fear like to that I felt when I could not find you on the battlefield. I – I think – I – I could love you.”

And his face, oh his face, the sun has come out, the joy in him, oh my elf, how could I have been so foolish not to say those words? He throws himself against me, he clutches at me, he is kissing at my face, and they are unskilled little pecks, but so precious, as he says over and over,

“I love you, I love you, I have loved you so long. I cannot bear to be apart from you, I love you, I – please Gimli, do not make me see you with another ever again – please – I love you so.”

And I am kissing him, holding him, and oh I love him.  
“I love you,” I say, “you make me brave enough to say it. I love you, I will not leave your side in this world. I love you.”

He clings to me, as we stop kissing to breathe, and he says again,   
“Please, Gimli, teach me, show me what to do, how to please you? I – I think I am on fire, I do not know what to do, how to – to make you feel this?”

I smile into his hair,  
“You make me feel on fire whenever I look at you,” I say, “but, if you would please me, if you really mean it, oh my love, then – then let me look at you, touch you, have you. I want you so,” and at the words he whimpers against me, and quivers so, and I am so hard, so wanting. “Oh, fuck, Legolas, I want you, I want to fuck you,” I say, and I wonder where my eloquence is gone.

He is still clinging to me, and hiding his face against me, says,  
“but I do not know. I do not know what you mean, what fucking is. I – I will do whatever you want, I love you so, but I do not know.”

“Well,” I say, “it would be a good start to get all these clothes off, and to put our bedrolls together.”

Uncertainly, and oh my elf, I did not know you could act so well, I have never in all our games seen you act quite so well as this, uncertainly he begins to remove his clothes as I strip and pull his bedroll next to mine. I take his hand, and lead him to sit by me, and I finish undoing him, stripping him, so gently, as he traces fingers over me, as mesmerised by my inkings now as he was then.

“lie down, my pretty elf,” I say, “and let me teach you.”

Oh, he is a fast learner. And that, I remember, is true enough. Soon, his hands are running over me, he is stroking me, and I am breathing hard, I am wanting him.

“Stop,” I say, “you are so lovely I will not last long. Let me kiss you,” and as he lies back, I begin to kiss over him, licking at him, teasing him until he is begging me for more. “Oh, there is more, I promise you there is more,” I say, “turn onto your front, my love,” and I enjoy the little whimper he makes at the word, as he turns obediently.

I bury my head in his hair, I kiss his neck, and I bite gently, oh so gently, but then – then a bit harder, and harder as I can feel his pleasure in the sensation.

Carefully, I trace my way down his spine, and oh I am getting impatient, but no, no, I must do this right. 

“Durin’s teeth,” I say, I cannot help it, “your arse is so perfect, oh my elf, my Legolas, I want you so. Yes?”

And, I do not know how, he is able to stay in his role, to mewl, to say,   
“I do not know, I do not know what you want, but please, please, love me. Love me. Make me yours. Please. I love you so.”

I am running my hands over him, feeling him, and oh fuck, he is so hot, so smooth, so perfect. It takes the smallest nudge and he is raising his hips, spreading his legs, and oh, my elf, you are not that good an actor, you know perfectly well what you want. But as I reach for the oil, which I notice my so-not-a-virgin elf has carefully placed by my bedroll, I think, no. There is one thing I have never had the courage to suggest. One thing I have not done, not with him, nor with any other, yet I do long to try. 

“Trust me, love,” I say, “I will please you. I will teach you, I love you so.” And I lean down, and holding him open, I, so carefully, tenderly, lick round his hole. And he shudders, and makes that delicious whimpering noise again.

“Oh, oh, Gimli, what, please, I – oh.” My elf is never very eloquent, and less so at these moments, I think. But, fuck, that is good. And he is loving it, rocking back towards me, whimpering, crying out, as I work him open with my tongue, and then he is begging for more, and I sit back and oil my fingers.

“Is this good?” I ask, as I begin to stroke inside him, and oh how he is loving it, “is this what you want? Yes? More?” and it takes so little time before he is pushing further onto my hand, and for all that he is supposed to be a virgin again tonight, he does not sound like one.

“Oh please, please, more, Gimli, more, please, fuck me, I love you so,” he is saying, over and over, and I cannot resist much longer.

“Sure? You want this?” I ask, “I love you, Legolas, my elf, I do not wish to hurt you.”

“Want,” he says, and oh I want too. And I am in him, so deep, and oh fuck that feels good as I ride him, pounding into him over and over, as he likes it, saying his name, telling him I love him, and he cries out, screaming my name, begging me not to stop, not ever to stop, until he bucks under me, and his clenching around me takes me with him and I come, groaning out his name, and digging my fingers into his hips enough to leave bruises.

After a moment, I roll away, and pull him onto me, nestling in my arms, as he should be.

“I love you,” I say, and I feel his hands in my hair and beard, as he whispers,

“I love you, that – that was good. But – that - what you did – you have not done that before. I – I did not know.”

“No. I have not. Ever. That was new.”

There is a silence for a moment, and I realise he is swallowing back tears,   
“Oh my daft sodding elf,” I say, “what is wrong?”

He burrows close again, and manages,  
“Sorry. Nothing is wrong. I – I love you so.”

And now I am worried. I thought – I thought we had played enough games by now that he was relaxed. Perhaps not. I hold him close, to see if there is more to come.

“I love you,” he says again, “you are my world. And – that was good. And – getting it right this time, I – I know it is silly, but – I just – it was nice.”

Oh my eloquent elf, I think. You have no command of words.  
“Not silly,” I say, “very nice indeed. I – I am just sorry I did not get it right last time we were here.” For I am.

He shrugs against me,  
“It matters not, now. We found each other in the end. And – if you had, I would not have gone back to the Halls. I would not now have my elves in Ithilien. I would not have Caradhil to rely on.”

Shit. I had not thought of that. Another reason to regret my stupidity. I do not say this.

“I would probably not have Droin. Had I been so gloriously happy, he might have decided not to journey with me, he misses his love so.” I say instead. 

“And,” he has been thinking, “we have not broken my comb this time. So I would not have such a beautiful comb, made by you in replacement. I would have only the one gifted me so long ago.”

“Gifted?” I ask, and I wonder that I never did before, “who gifted it?”

“I – I do not remember,” he says, and I wonder, as I see he cannot meet my eyes. 

Fuck you, Caradhil, I think. He let me break that comb, he gave that comb away. 

He is mine.

And if he wants, needs, to call me his husband, his lord, then I suppose I shall learn to live with it.

Although I dread to think what my parents will say.


End file.
